


held uncommon

by halsinator



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Dubious Consent, Inadvertent Memory Sharing, M/M, references to violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halsinator/pseuds/halsinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episodic series wherein Segundus is seduced by Lascelles (and Drawlight) to punish Childermass, and later learns to escape the hands of the past (through domesticity with Childermass).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. common friends

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the immortal kinkmeme.

Segundus proves surprisingly amenable to seduction. He is a small, poor man with small, poor tastes. Lascelles learned long ago— show such a man kindness, and he is yours. He does not expect any finer currency; indeed, he would not know what to do with such a currency should he achieve an encounter. His clothes are all old and diligently patched. He has turned the hems of his sleeves. And oh, he is so eager to believe the best of others! And oh, he is so trusting! And oh, he is so hungry for some sweetness in his life! He is like a little sea sponge, Lascelles thinks, soaking up the faintest praise, blushing and stammering and blossoming before one's eyes. (Do sea sponges blossom? Well.) It really is almost sickening.

Certainly he has never encountered a man of Lascelles' particular skills. He possesses none of the resistance that builds up through exposure. He is easy as a milkmaid to get into bed. Lascelles has him naked in under an hour. He is almost irritated by this. He likes more of a challenge. Segundus looks overwhelmed: oh, lord, his hands are trembling slightly; his eyes are wide and startled in his delicate face.

Lascelles has already determined where this is going, but he decides to play some games along the way: using his mouth until Segundus is crying out in little hiccups, until his hands twist the bedsheets into a noiseless plea, then teaching Segundus to clumsily return the gesture. He commits to memory the touch of silky hair under his fingers, the little flinch and gasp as he grips it mercilessly, moving Segundus' head at the speed he desires. This, after all, is how you please; don't you want to please? "Don't you want to be good?" he asks.

"Yes," Segundus whispers.

Which is as good as an endorsement. And oh, what fun Lascelles has with that. He teaches Segundus to be very, very good. Then he lays him out on the bed and prepares to have him in the Greek manner. This involves a lot of soothing and gentling, as Segundus shakes and gasps at the first touch of a finger. But Lascelles is nothing if not single-minded. So he holds him through it and kisses the back of his neck, keeping him sweet and keeping him distracted. After all, there is a lot of pleasure to be had once one is through the initial struggle; at least, he is given to understand so. It is an act that he himself would never permit.

Certainly there is pleasure for Lascelles, when he pushes himself into Segundus. That initial slow thrust is the one he likes best. Segundus makes a lot of noise, which is rather annoying, but fortunately he is face-down, so it is all somewhat muffled. Lascelles ignores him and concentrates on the sensation of fucking. His strokes speed up and he watches himself, the slick inches of his cock disappearing into Segundus again and again, a kind of subjugation of someone else's body that gives him a hard bright joy. When he thinks about it, he hammers out a few uncontrolled strokes, unbearably aroused. Then he has to make up for it, going very nice— oh, he can be nice— and rocking back and forth, keeping Segundus full, coaxing him towards pleasure, till he is responding to each slow deep thrust that Lascelles gives him. He is so good, Lascelles tells him. He is made for it.

Of course, it wouldn't do for Segundus to have too much pleasure. Not when Lascelles has yet to finish— which he does in a burst of hard, rough movement, grinding down again and again as he chases that white heat of total domination. He feels himself jerk. His bones go semi-liquid. He holds Segundus still while his release runs through him.

It takes a moment before he is willing to relinquish the sensation, but Segundus is still moving under him, little whimpering thrusts against the bedsheets. Lascelles would roll his eyes in impatience, but he has another game in mind. It is a game that is played like this: he lets Segundus push into his slick, slick hand, watching his eyelashes flutter and his mouth go slack, and lets him bring himself right to the brink of completion. Then he denies him. And again, till Segundus is shaking with frustration, making incoherent noises.

"Shh," Lascelles whispers. "Ask me for it."

"Please," Segundus begs. "Oh, please, please!"

Lascelles studies his face closely as, at last, he lets him finish. He wants to memorize that little look of startling, the sucked-in breath of amazement, and then the soft cry of ecstasy that escapes him. Segundus turns his face towards the bed in an oddly shy motion, as though now, finally, he notices how vulnerable he is. But it is too late, of course; he has let Lascelles see. He has given Lascelles what Lascelles wanted from him.

* * *

 

It is perhaps a week later that Lascelles, lounging about the Hanover Square house, finds a moment to comment to Childermass, "What was the name of that little schoolmaster? The one you were so fond of?"

For a moment, Childermass seems to examine the trap. He says finally, "I've no particular fondness for anyone, Mr Lascelles. I cannot think what you mean."

"Segundus," Lascelles says. "That was his name, wasn't it? Odd sort of name. Latin."

Childermass half-shrugs, as though dismissing the whole affair.

"A very serious sort of person, but passably pretty, I suppose. You know, I think he might have been a virgin?" Lascelles pours scorn into the single word, smiling very superiorly. It is not hard to do, when he sees Childermass stiffen, and hold his hands as though to prevent them becoming fists. "Of course, you may be sure I took care of that rather thoroughly. I taught him all kinds of new tricks. Perhaps you'll have the opportunity to enjoy them, one day."

He half expects Childermass to strike him. The black weight of his eyes is blow enough, with the sheer force of the dislike behind them. Lascelles feels himself physically take a step backwards. But he maintains his small, thin, even grin.

"He makes," Lascelles continues, "the most delightful little face right at the moment of completion. Really, he is too ingenuous altogether. Perhaps I might make another journey to Yorkshire. I think I'd quite enjoy having him again."

This is a lie, of course. He's not that interested. The climax of the act, for him, was this: watching Childermass seethe impotently with barely concealed rage. If he did have Segundus again, the circumstances would have to be heightened somehow. Perhaps he could take Drawlight with him. It seems such a lot of effort for such a private pleasure. But this— this was worth it.

Childermass shoulders roughly past him, saying nothing. Perhaps he doesn't trust himself to say anything.

"It's so wonderful," Lascelles calls after him, "to have friends in common! Don't you think? Or perhaps I mean common friends."

Later, he will come to think the joke is not his best one. He will contemplate how to improve upon it.


	2. common friends in common

The second time requires a little more refinement. Segundus is just as eager and just as trusting, but perhaps a little wary of the motives at work. Why has Mr Lascelles brought his friend, perhaps he wonders. Perhaps he remembers how demanding Mr Lascelles had been. (Lascelles excels at imagining what his— well, what is the word? prey? victims?— are thinking. He can enter into it quite easily: where first Segundus would have dwelt on Lascelles' obvious skill and obvious enjoyment of his body, perhaps entertaining foolish blushes over the long hot kisses, the way that Lascelles had spent so much time patiently initiating him, now he dwells on how Lascelles had held him pinned hard beneath him all the time they were fucking. He thinks of his face pressed down into the pillow. He thinks of Lascelles' rough grip at the back of his head.) A sliver of doubt now needles his mind. Can he really trust Mr Lascelles? Does he really like Mr Lascelles? Why, exactly, is Mr Lascelles here?

So— Lascelles thinks: start with wine, then. Three cups later, Segundus is a great deal more forgiving. He is one of those happy drunks who get hungry for skin, who want to hold you warmly and rest their head on your shoulder. He laughs like a little girl.

Drawlight is captivated by him. Well, of course he is; Drawlight is very narcissistic, and Segundus is small, dark, delicate, pretty. In his mind, Drawlight is probably already dressing him up like a doll, dressing him up to look just like him. Drawlight is a very deviant sort of person, Lascelles reflects tolerantly.

"You should come to our room," Drawlight says, "and play cards with us."

Segundus' brow wrinkles. "Can we not play cards here?"

"Oh, but it's so noisy here. I do not care for it at all."

That gets Segundus halfway up the stairs; but then he falters. He is, his face announces, conflicted. "I do not," he says, "—that is, I must be clear about my intentions. I fear you may have an incorrect idea of me."

"We are all gentlemen here," Lascelles says with a note of condescension. "Dare I ask what you take us for?"

And that gets Segundus the other halfway up the stairs. After that, it's quite easy, really: the charade of the card game, Drawlight nuzzling into Segundus' hair, mouthing slowly and hotly along his neckline so that before Segundus realizes it, he has tipped his head back in pleasure.

It is remarkable how insinuating Drawlight is, really; by the time Segundus thinks to say, "Oh, but I did not— I do not—" Drawlight has got him in his shirtsleeves, with his waistcoat open and his shirt rucked up. Segundus looks as though someone has turned him upside down, swung him around, and put him on his feet again, which is to say that he looks heartbreakingly unsure of what is happening to him. "I really don't want," he tries to say.

Drawlight slips the waistcoat off his shoulders in a smooth, practiced movement, and at the same time tips him back onto the bed. "Look at you," he says. "Lascelles was right. You're absolutely delicious." He kneels over Segundus, a lithe predator, legs at each side of Segundus' hips, and licks a long slow stripe from navel to sternum. He is very wet and methodical, and Segundus makes an incoherent sound, arching up into it.

Lascelles says, bored, "Let me guess: you want to lick him all over." Drawlight is nothing if not predictable.

"I do," Drawlight says. "I really, really do." He jerks Segundus' shirt over his head, tangling it around his wrists to pin them above him.

Segundus makes a protesting sound. His face is flushed, his eyes glassy. "I am very sorry," he says, "but could you please... only... I can't move my hands...?"

"Don't worry," Drawlight says. "You aren't going to need them. Lascelles, are you planning to do more than sit there?"

Lascelles flickers a glance of dislike at him. But he moves to the head of the bed, which is what Drawlight wanted, and bends to kiss Segundus so he won't protest. Segundus makes a noise of protest anyway, into his mouth, so Lascelles strokes his hair. "Shh," he says. "We're going to take care of you. You're going to be our little pet."

That makes Drawlight giggle. He's still licking along Segundus' chest, coy little cat-licks with a hint of teeth at the nipples, which punches a noise out of Segundus: "Ah- _ah!_ " he cries. He thrashes, but Drawlight's still kneeling above him, and Lascelles is holding his trapped arms to the bed.

When Drawlight moves down to unfasten Segundus' breeches, Lascelles bends to kiss him again. It's a forceful kiss, wet and hot and searching. He feels Segundus stiffen under him and make a number of gasping sounds that suggest inarticulate pleasure. He guesses that Drawlight has gotten to his cock. He pulls back just enough to murmur in his ear, "Still want us to stop now?" He doesn't wait for a reply, though; he bites down on Segundus' earlobe, and then moves his mouth back to his lips. Really, he doesn't care for kissing all that much, but what he's imagining is how those lips will look on his cock as he slides it between them. He simulates the motion with his tongue, pressing it in, then out, then in, feeling Segundus' breath catch. Perhaps he gets the point.

When Lascelles looks up again, Drawlight is licking Segundus' cock in the same teasing manner: the very tiniest, barest licks, as though he is trying to see what kind of flinches he can elicit. When he sees that Lascelles is watching him, he smiles very sharply. "Do you want his mouth?" he says. "Or shall we turn him over?"

"Mm," Lascelles says, thinking about it. "Yes; I want him, but you can play with him, still."

He sheds his breeches, and arranges himself on the bed, absent-mindedly palming his cock to full hardness. Very gently, he draws Segundus up and turns him onto his knees. This necessitates freeing his hands, of course, but— "You're going to be good, aren't you?" Lascelles murmurs softly. He runs a hand down Segundus' back. Segundus shivers. His eyes are wide, almost frightened. "That's right," Lascelles says. "That's just right." He draws Segundus' head down into his lap.

It's as satisfying as he expected, pushing his cock between those lips, feeling Segundus struggle to take him. Lascelles watches him, sees his eyes flicker up, sweetly uncertain. Lascelles pushes down on his head. Up and down. Up and down. The soft, unpracticed, somehow innocent heat of him. The long hair that Lascelles cards his fingers through, then winds around his hand for a harder grip.

Drawlight, meanwhile, starts at the spine and licks downwards. This is a perversion of his; Lascelles really cannot see the appeal, but it makes the eventual work less for him. And when Drawlight reaches his destination, Segundus utters a startled cry, and Lascelles also enjoys that; he enjoys seeing Segundus' eyelashes flutter in dazed, ecstatic confusion as Drawlight pushes his tongue into him. And, of course, he enjoys regaining Segundus' attention, reminding him of where his attention is wanted, so that even as he cries out over and over and over, little almost-pained cries in staggers, he lets Lascelles' cock muffle him.

Soon enough, though, Lascelles needs more than this amusement. He pulls Segundus' head back— noting, in satisfaction, his wince— and goes to evict Drawlight from his current position. Drawlight is energetically engaged in his mission to lick Segundus all over, but he goes willingly enough to the place Lascelles had vacated. Lascelles watches him stroke Segundus' hair sweetly, and bend down and whisper something to him. Knowing Drawlight, it could be nice, or it could be filth. It is very difficult to tell which. Either way, he coaxes Segundus' mouth onto him, so that is Segundus distracted, and Lascelles can set himself to the task of penetration.

What a delicious task it is: Drawlight has left matters very wet and just barely loose: a hot tight clench as Lascelles pushes in; an inch-by-inch thrust with a hint of violence. Lascelles lets out a groan of appreciation and stills for a moment, just barely shifting, just waiting to sink a little deeper, barely conscious of Segundus shaking and gasping. Drawlight will take care of it, he knows, and indeed there is Drawlight petting and cooing, so Lascelles can focus on gaining that final inch. Then sliding out and sinking back in deep, then faster, then again. He grips Segundus' hips and hitches him up slightly: a better angle, a little deeper, and he can go fast. He gets into a rhythm he can go at for a good long while, steady even strokes that hit hard at their deepest. His fingers dig into Segundus' hipbones hard; there is a lot of force in his thrusts. Segundus makes noises. Pleased noises? Pained noises? His head is in Drawlight's lap, and Drawlight's head is tipped back; his left hands cups Segundus' neck gently, and his right hand grips the back of Segundus' head.

After a while, the image comes to him of Childermass watching, and that, ultimately, is what brings him to his end: he imagines slowing his strokes so he can show Childermass exactly how much he likes it; exactly how much he likes despoiling the little schoolmaster, making him whine and moan for it. He imagines Childermass' dark eyes resting furious on him. He makes a savage noise and drives in— hips working hard as he chases his pleasure, stiffening finally, finally— jerking hot and wet— and he breathes out, letting his heart stop racing.

He waits till his cock has softened a little to pull out. He had imagined Drawlight might be done by then, but Drawlight's eyes are dark and alive with excitement. He leaves Segundus panting into the pillow and joins Lascelles. "Turn him over," he says. "I want to—"

Lascelles catches his meaning. "Oh, really?" he says in disgust. Only Drawlight would consider this fit behavior. But he flips Segundus over and lets Drawlight has his way. Drawlight hitches one of his legs up and sinks straight into him. Segundus half-convulses, arching his back up a little; he bites his lip and turns his face as though to hide it. "Good," Drawlight breathes, "Oh, God, you're so good, you're so pretty, you're— so good, so good so good, so pretty..."

Lascelles rolls his eyes. This is Drawlight talking to himself, even as he thrusts into Segundus. He keeps up the steady murmur of nonsense as he fucks through Lascelles' leavings. He is considerate, though; one has to give him that; he gets a hand around Segundus' cock and works it slowly, never quite enough, but enough that Segundus squeezes his eyes shut, and then, unexpectedly, breaks: stuttering out a stream of breathless pleading, the first words he has uttered since he asked them to untrap his hands. "Please," he begs, "please, please, please, oh please, oh please."

Drawlight gazes down at him in satisfaction, but he doesn't speed up his hand. In fact, after a moment, he takes it away— Segundus makes a desperate, incoherent sob of a sound— to focus on his own pleasure. He thrusts harder and faster, dropping his head, and very soon drives forwards hard and freezes that way, gasping out little ecstatic sounds.

A moment later he flops back onto a chaise-longue. "God, that was luscious," he remarks to no one in particular. He is faintly sheened in sweat, breathing hard. He waves a hand at Lascelles. "Go ahead; I know you like to— you know."

Lascelles throws a withering glance at him, but approaches the bed. Segundus is stretched out, and— how adorable— it seems to not have occurred to him that he could finish himself off quite easily now, now that no one is pinning him down and fucking him. He is trembling, his eyes shut, his heels flinching restlessly against the bedclothes.

"Look at you," Lascelles says. His voice is gentle, soothing.

Segundus' eyes fly open. Lascelles is amused to notice that his eyelashes are wet.

Lascelles kneels over him and grips his cock very lightly. Segundus gives a shiver and gasps out a half-moan.

"You're very noisy," Lascelles says, as though considering it. He ghosts his hand down, feeling Segundus' cock jerk. "It's very sweet. I like that you're noisy. You want it so, so much. Don't you?"

"Yes," Segundus whispers. A tear beads at the far edge of his eyelashes and slides down his cheek. He turns his face away.

Lascelles smiles sharply. "I think I'd like you to make some noise now," he says.

What follows is five minutes of the most exquisite begging. Sucked-in inhales, gasps, moans, stuttered cries of _please! please!_ All the while, Lascelles' hand works steadily, inexorably. When at last Segundus climaxes, it is almost silent, which is a little disappointing, but he makes the same very entertaining startled expression, as though he still can't quite believe what's happening.

Afterwards, Lascelles washes himself methodically. Drawlight has fallen asleep as he is, but then he is deeply filthy. Segundus has curled up into a sort of snail-shell circle, occupying one small quarter of the bed. When Lascelles goes to him with quite good intentions, bringing a basin and reaching a cloth out to wash him, Segundus flinches back.

"I think," he says in a minute clear voice, "I would prefer not to be touched just now."

Lascelles shrugs. "Clean yourself, then," he says, tossing him the cloth. But he dislikes having edicts set by his inferiors, so he cannot quite prevent himself from reaching out and very deliberately tucking a strand of hair behind Segundus' ear.

Segundus squeezes his eyes shut and stays very still. And though Lascelles offers rather generously that he may sleep in the room, he is gone before Lascelles awakes the next day.


	3. uncommon friends

It is not at all what Segundus had expected.

Childermass begins by taking each of his hands. Or rather— not taking; he asks mutely with his eyes if touching his hands is permitted. Segundus offers them to him, palms facing up. Childermass subjects each one to scrutiny. He presses his mouth to the base of one wrist, a brief instant of heat, then to the tip of each finger; then repeats the process. It is oddly tender, not carnal at all, albeit it is so very much a meeting of flesh and flesh.

Next the wrists, the forearms, tracing each one's veins. Segundus breathes sharply. He is acutely, unbearably aware of his body, of Childermass's attention upon it. He does not think he has ever been examined in such detail. Each sun-mark, each scar; Childermass's mouth moving upwards; his long-fingered hands at the crest of each shoulder, the touch of them still surprisingly chaste. (There is nothing chaste at all about this encounter.)

The narrow bones of his clavicle. The little well where they join the sternum, where he feels his pulse flutter. The back of his neck—

"Mm," he says, flinching forwards. He hadn't meant to. A ghost crawls for a second over his skin.

Childermass says nothing. His thumb strokes over the spot. It is a vulnerable spot; perhaps the most vulnerable; it would be the easiest place in the world to kill a man. Poor planning on the part of some watchmaker God.

Then the same thumb, a light touch against each vertebra. Almost as though he is engaged in an act of accounting, making sure that each one is in its right place. Next his mouth, repeating that same careful gesture. At first a question:  _Is this... ?_  Then less tentative. Halfway down: a sudden sharp exhale. So, you are not so unaffected, Segundus thinks, and he exults a little in it.

Hands travel his ribs, and settle him onto the bedlinen. For just a moment, he starts to feel pinned. A butterfly in a case, or a moth, more likely. Its drab little wingspan on display. He doesn't realize how he is hunching his shoulders until Childermass sets his hands on them, so very very weightless and so very very careful that Segundus thinks he could, if he liked, shake off the grip, for all that Childermass is the heavier and no doubt trained in violence.

He does not shake off the grip. He makes himself draw a long breath. He waits till he feels able to lift his eyes, slightly frightened, and does so: almost meeting Childermass's gaze. He feels singed a little by it when he looks away again. But there is no— well, he is not sure what he expected. Some measure of evaluation, maybe. An assessment of skills. There is nothing of that.

A hand cups his face, gently turning his head. A thumb touching his cheekbone. He wants to rest his head against that hand, which is a very worrying desire indeed.  _You are too trusting, John Segundus,_  he thinks to himself, not for the first time, and certainly not the bitterest. Somehow, impossibly, he would swear that Childermass sees this. A look of intense unhappiness darkens his eyes, and his mouth quirks, savagely self-mocking. It's so easy an expression for his face to slip into.

But Segundus cannot bear it, not in tandem with the scar along his cheek. He does not even think; he arches upwards to capture that mouth, to kiss away its momentary sin of self-hate. Strangely he almost sees it, as he sometimes sees kinds of spellwork. It would be not a rose, but a kind of thorn branch. No wonder he does not speak, Segundus thinks, no wonder he fears—

They are kissing so urgently, such clumsy, fierce, concentrated kisses on Segundus's part, and on Childermass's so exactly responsive, restrained. Segundus feels a wave of shame when he realizes this; at the same time he is grateful, but he pulls a little away. Something must again show, for Childermass continues kissing him, the same slow, steady, patient kiss, a kind of continuous utterance of want. After a time, Segundus relaxes into it.

Everything has this feel, a low thrum of desire, a drowsy current of it that seems to run all through the world. As though all the things in the world were connected, as they are in magic. Childermass leans their foreheads together, an unbearable intimacy, inescapable. Their bodies touch in other places as though by happenstance. Every breath is shared, and every noise that escapes them— Segundus at first tries to bite his lip, flushing— he would like to swallow his own voice, to sever it, to disattach it from him— but Childermass coaxes his mouth open, eyes gleaming in satisfaction when the slightest of sounds escapes.

And it is, frankly, difficult to think so much as the itch of pleasure builds into a wave; as he pulls Childermass's body down onto his own in increasingly electric and forceful motions. It is ludicrous to think that he— little, easily held still, easily made to do as others wish— could ever, in fact, exert force against Childermass, and it is surprisingly delicious to know this is so. To know that Childermass allows this, wants it, even. Segundus makes a startled sound not unlike a laugh.

And— he sees his own laughter reflected, returned; feels Childermass bury a noise of joy into his skin, just above that little well where his collarbones join. How the landscape of it has been reinvented! How Segundus mouths his release against Childermass's shoulder, latching shaking hands onto him! And how Childermass lays him back gently, almost reverently, and lets him see his face as he too finishes.

And perhaps there is a little magic in it, after all. When Segundus, warm and blanketed in Childermass's body, has let himself drift half to sleep, he feels a shudder of laughter from the man above him.

"Mmph," Segundus says.

"Don't look about you. We'll sort it in the morning."

When the morning comes, there are discovered to be half a dozen newspapers transfigured into little paper butterflies that float about the room grey-winged and serenely, eluding almost every effort to catch them.

Childermass makes no such effort; he sits and laughs.

"Surely Doctor Pale and Miss Pevensey experienced no such incidents," Segundus, rather exasperated by this point, complains. "Do you think it likely to be a habitual occurrence?"

"I do not know," Childermass says, and reaches for him. "But let us try, if we may, and see."


	4. uncommon coupling

Childermass is not a delicate person. This is not something he has the means to regret. How do you regret what brought you to the place you are now? If it had not been for the ships, the slums, and the tanyards, the gaol-yards and poorhouse, who would John Childermass have been? Not the magician who now spends his days in reading and writing and pondering and visiting libraries, and other sorts of labour unimaginable to his young self. Not the man who has slept in a featherbed for four nights now with another magician beside him.

So, no. He is not a delicate person. He has no illusions nor regrets about that. But still he looks at that other magician, snoring softly beside him, curled so as to occupy only a small part of the mattress, a look of worried vexation on his sleeping face, as though someone is attempting to thwart him in his dreams, and Childermass cannot imagine the impulse to crush him. To—

_"Do you want to hear more?" Lascelles had whispered. His voice lowered in mockery of confidence. That little grin, insidious, snake-like. "Would that excite you? Do you want to hear how he begged us for it? How he would have let the both of us have him a second time? You could have him if you like; he'll roll over for anyone who asks—"_

He shakes off the memory with a flick of his head and places his hand against Segundus' bare shoulder, as though by this gesture he can protect him from evil. Segundus frowns, drawing his eyebrows together in a peevish expression. He mumbles something in which only the words "Ralph Stokesey" are distinct.

Childermass laughs under his breath. It is a joy he had not imagined, waking and watching Segundus sleep. He has never been a man to stay in a bed with another, once the act itself is done. So there is a newness in it. In the old world, the world of service, he would never have permitted himself it— too much leverage to offer his enemies. Every gentle emotion was a wound in waiting. Only in the new world are such things allowed.

He lets his hand wander, stroking down Segundus' arm. Segundus yawns and blinks, coming a little awake.

"You were dreaming about magic," Childermass tells him. "I believe you were lecturing a Norrellite." He bends to kiss him, a slow and chaste press of the lips. Segundus makes a complaining noise, presumably about the taste, and Childermass grins against his mouth.

"Am I not so pleasing as English magic?" he rumbles. "Have I lost all my charms?"

Segundus screws up his nose. "You are overconfident, sir," he manages indistinctly between kisses. "Pleasing, you may very well be, but as for English magic— mmph!"

He makes an offended sound as Childermass effectively muffles him, flailing at Childermass' shoulder indignantly. Laughing, Childermass pins his hands above his shoulders, and dips to kiss him slow and deep.

Segundus goes still under him, which ought to give him pause but doesn't— at least, not right away. After a moment, one wrist flinches tentatively in Childermass' grasp, and he realizes, and curses himself, and draws back entirely.

Segundus pulls his hands in towards his chest, breathing hard, and quickly turns his head away. It is a gesture that Childermass has noticed before, a kind of act of aversion.

"Forgive me," Childermass says. He rests his hand against the side of Segundus' face, offering but not imposing the touch, smoothing his thumb very lightly along an inch of cheekbone.

"No;" Segundus says nervously, without looking at him, "why should I need to? There is nothing to forgive."

"I know that there is," Childermass says. The words have an unexpected resonance and weight. There is, Childermass thinks, a great deal for which he needs to be forgiven. But he knows, too, that Segundus will not speak of it. He feels a brief sense of frustration: how is he to atone? He sighs, and shuts his eyes, and presses his lips briefly to Segundus' temple. "Will you not let me make amends?" he murmurs.

Wordlessly, Segundus reaches up and cards fingers through his rough hair. He draws Childermass' head down to his shoulder— in part, Childermass suspects, so that he will not have to meet Childermass' eyes. But Childermass accepts it, for he has never felt so restful, he thinks, as when he rests against Segundus' body. He has never felt so at peace.

So he rests, and Segundus strokes his hair, and morning sun slowly warms the bedroom.

After a while, when Childermass has been lulled nearly half to sleep, Segundus says quietly, "There is nothing to forgive. I only wish I had not..." He hesitates. "Hurt you."

"You have never hurt me," Childermass says. "I do not think you are capable of it." He smiles a twisted smile, thinking of the types of men who have hurt him, and he is glad that Segundus cannot see the smile.

"I fear I am still hurting you," Segundus says.

"No." Childermass pushes himself to his elbows. He gives Segundus a searching look. Segundus does not quite meet his gaze. "Shall I tell you you are not? Shall I show you the truth of the matter?"

Segundus looks unsure, a little apprehensive.

Childermass says, "You are very precious to me. I only wish to do what will bring you delight."

He puts his mouth at the juncture of jaw and neck, where Segundus' skin is softest and whitest; he sucks gently, not enough to leave a mark, then traces a wet line to the base of his throat. "Does this delight you?" he says.

Segundus still does not, he thinks, really grasp his purpose, but he very jerkily nods his head; breathlessly he says, "Yes. Yes."

So Childermass moves down the bed, idly peeling the counterpane off as he goes, till he reaches Segundus' hips. He strokes the narrow jut of one hipbone, with a hand, and then his tongue, then biting gently down on it, aware of how this makes Segundus shudder upwards. He says huskily, mouth still ghosting skin, "And does this delight you?"

"Y-yes— you know it does!"

"How can I know, if you will not tell me?" Childermass points out reasonably, grinning. He lowers his mouth again. He is aware of Segundus' cock, which is rising slowly, but chooses to ignore it; instead he bends Segundus' knee to one side and devotes his attention to his inner thigh, moving along its pleasing expanse of freckles. He suspects that his mouth will leave a mark here, but then, he reflects in a moment of possessiveness, so it should. Why should it not, when this, too— he confirms— delights Segundus? He sucks another mark into the flesh there, to commemorate his triumph.

The inside of the opposite thigh. The opposite hipbone. By now, Segundus' cock is fully erect. Childermass pauses and breathes hotly against it, clearly telegraphing his intent; it jerks. He looks up and mildly enquires, "Would this delight you?"

Segundus bites his lip, uncertain. He says, "Yes— yes, I think—"

So Childermass, in one engulfing move, sinks down on him: down and then up in a smooth practiced act, to the back of the throat, then again. He stops and finds Segundus' hands gripping the bedsheets. Childermass licks slowly and pensively at his cock before saying, "You may hold my head if you wish."

Segundus flushes deeply, and his cock twitches, but he looks away. "I do not wish to hurt you," he says.

Childermass keeps his voice deliberately even. "You will not hurt me. But if it does not delight you..." He shrugs, and bends his head to work again. He hears Segundus gasp above him and make a tremulous sound.

There is a light touch after a moment: just the barest brush of a hand on his hair, frightened and feather-like. Childermass is torn between a warm surge of desire and the darker bite of anger, that someone should have given Segundus this idea— should have made him feel— for he can picture very well the source of such apprehension. But there is no good to it; he lets it go, and goes back to desire.

He wrings a crescendo of sounds out of Segundus, each one a testimony to the delight that is Childermass' tongue marking some secret area of pleasure, tasting the slick fluid, the taut skin, but he is not done yet with the quest that he is on, and so he pulls off eventually, despite Segundus' noise of protest.

"No!" Segundus objects petulantly. "That does  _not_  delight me!"

Childermass rests his face against Segundus' stomach and laughs. "I am sorry for it," he says, "but I shall remedy the ill, sir."

He starts to move upwards, neatly balanced so that Segundus' hips are between his knees, when a flash of— something— is acutely visible and he pauses at once. "And this," he says gently, all the humour gone. "This does not." It is a statement.

Segundus says nothing. He avoids Childermass' eyes. His head flinches minutely to one side: that little aversion.

Childermass shifts to one side easily. He touches Segundus' hand in reassurance, then presses a kiss above his heart in apology.

It is just as simple to do as he had planned from this position, and lower his mouth to the peak of a nipple. He starts out rather soothingly, then employs his tongue. He has always, he thinks drily, had a talented tongue. Segundus, in reaction, half-arches off the bed. So that is success and, feeling faintly victorious, he raises his head to ask, "And does that—"

"Oh, don't  _stop_ ," Segundus complains. His head thuds back against the pillow.

Childermass grins. He returns his mouth to the opposite nipple, and enjoys the similar vehemence of the effect. He himself, by now, is hard, and his hips are hitching where they would like him to be thrusting against something. But that is not his chiefest purpose, and he sets it aside.

He shifts lazily upwards, feeling rather like a cat, so that his head is level with Segundus', and leans in to kiss him softly and probingly. It is an intimate, explicitly carnal kiss, and it is meant to be. Segundus  _mmm_ s faintly into it, screwing up his eyes and pressing forwards urgently for more.

Childermass slides a hand down Segundus' body to circle his cock, and feels rather than hears the gasp he gets in response. When he moves his hand— and oh, he is good with his hands, too; a man never forgets his training— Segundus breathes, "Oh," into his mouth.

A little deliberate pressure from the slick crown to the base, laving that wetness up and down, and Segundus is thrusting up into his hand, hips lifting off the bed in slow trembling motions. His eyes are still squeezed shut. "Oh," he says, "oh, oh," and then, when Childermass shifts his wrist deftly,  _"Ah-h!"_

Childermass' own breath stutters; he has to bite back a noise of reaction. He mouthes at Segundus' jawline rather desperately. But he still manages, although hoarsely, to ask, "And does this— does this delight you?"

Segundus' eyes fly open. He looks rather dazed. He stares at Childermass, and then his hands are clutching wildly at Childermass' hair, tugging Childermass' mouth frantically to his own mouth, and between messy, frenetic kisses he moans, "Please, yes, please," and his hips jerk faster, faster, until at last he simply makes a choked, raw, astonished sound, his hands clenching and unclenching in fists, and climaxes across both their bodies.

Childermass buries a groan into Segundus' shoulder and thrusts helplessly against the bedsheets. "You are so," he grinds out, "so—"

He gets his own hand around himself then, and he is riding his fist, jerking fast towards a finish. He feels Segundus' hands against his face, drawing him up into a kiss that he loses himself in, that is just wet mouth against wet mouth, and then those same hands roaming across his body, touching him so eagerly, and the instant he feels Segundus' hand closing around his own hand, closing around his cock, he is gone, lurching white-hot into pleasure.

Later, after both of them have spent some time simply gasping, Segundus asks him quizzically, "I am so  _what?_ "

Childermass is half-stretched over Segundus' body, half-stretched over the bed, with Segundus stroking his back in a vague, very pleasant manner that is slowly sending Childermass to sleep.

Childermass says, "I did not have a clear idea of how the sentence would continue."

"Hmm." Segundus ceases his stroking, then— when Childermass makes a noise of objection— resumes with a quiet huff of amusement.

"Maddening," Childermass says after a moment. "Arousing. Pleasing to espy. Precious to me, as I have said."

"Hmm," Segundus says again. He sounds extremely drowsy.

"Have I managed a correct answer?"

Segundus only offers an indistinct murmur. His hand has slowed on Childermass' back.

"I will infer your assent," Childermass says. He shifts, intending to reach for the abandoned counterpane. But Segundus clings to him, preventing him from moving so far. "You will be cold," Childermass warns him.

He himself will not be cold, he thinks. He is not so delicate. But he burrows in towards Segundus' body anyways, towards the core of his soft, appealing warmth; and Segundus, with a fond small slumbering sound, makes room under the curve of his arm for him.


	5. uncommon kindness

They both, Childermass knows, dream of the past at times in various and unpleasant ways. For his own part, he dreams sometimes of the bullet that struck him; he dreams that it is still there inside his shoulder, burrowing deeper and deeper, a dark horrible animal that makes him feel unclean, and he wakes gasping and clawing at the ridged white scar, his skin crawling with a sense of shame that slowly withers as Segundus half-drowses against that scarred shoulder, talking airy nonsense until he falls asleep.

Segundus dreams that he has no mouth (this story he has shared)— that he is suffocating, unable to speak, trapped and panicked. When he has this dream, he does not like to be kissed for days; or rather, he does not like to be kissed on the mouth, so Childermass will kiss his throat, the palms of his hands, the line of his collarbone, each one of his ribs, until Segundus makes a face and says, "You are altogether absurd," as though he is not charmed by it.

So if asked, he might have offered that the practice of dream magic would not be wise for either of them. But it is not in the nature of magic to ask— nor, he will think later, with a sigh, is it in the nature of magicians.

The first he knows of it is a wooziness that overtakes him at his writing table. The sensation of someone doing magic is not so unusual, not these days, but this is a particularly demanding magic. Sleep, it tells him. Lie down and sleep a little. Childermass experiences a moment of annoyance— I do not care to sleep just now, he thinks— and a flash of alarm as he remembers laudanum tinctures, doctors lifting bandages from his chest.

Then he is lifting his head and blinking at a darkened Starecross— what he recognizes at once as a dream-version of it. The dream world has a certain quality of movement, slower and heavier than the real world has. He frowns, looking around. This does not feel like his sort of dream. In fact, from the sensation of the dream, as he stands and walks through the room, he could very well hazard a guess whose it is, for that sensation is one of an almost impish wonder, combined with a strange sense of awe, as though everything around him is aware of its own magical potential. He is familiar with this particular viewpoint; he sleeps beside it most nights of the week.

The halls, in the dream, are overgrown with vines, and the vines seem to whisper and catch at him. It is a very uneasy landscape. Not dreadful— if anything, he feels curious about it— but not particularly safe or simple, either. He has a feeling he must keep his wits about him. It is a very magical place, indeed.

The hall is lined with doors, and he can hear noise behind them: sometimes voices chattering, sometimes louder voices raised in anger, once what he thinks is someone crying. Intrigued, he tests a handle and lets the door swing open. Behind it is a familiar scene: the snow steps of the Minster at night. A flock of black-coated gentlemen like minor ravens, gathering to sign all their magic away. Childermass himself— a younger, though not-much-changed version, stands smirking and holding the paper for them. And there in the back is Segundus, so much younger and somehow smaller. Childermass had forgotten how very tentative he was. Like a little mouse that felt he was about to be trapped. From his standpoint of broader and deeper knowledge, the Childermass of now sees what the Childermass of then cannot: that Segundus has his heart in his mouth. He acts as though he is afraid that Childermass will take it from him, and he is relieved to be reprieved and, he thinks, ignored, relieved to pass without notice.

It is clear to Childermass that this is Segundus' memory, in some fashion. It is a memory that he has little interest in, since he shares more-or-less the same recollection. But the idea comes to him that perhaps all the doors are memories, and then the idea comes to him that he ought to see if they are. He recognizes the danger in these ideas— he has a particular talent for seeing danger down the road— but he does not think it can do much hurt. He will simply see what the magic seems to be doing. He has a great interest, he reflects, in magic, after all.

He opens another door at random, recognizes the scene: he and Segundus are in the garden at Starecross, surrounded by thorns, three days after the loss of Norrell and Strange. The world is strange around them, though they have not fully seen it. They are both magicians. Childermass bears a scar on his cheek that is, he feels, not quite somehow as it should be.

"Will they return?" Segundus asks.

Childermass shrugs. "I cannot say for certain." He looks down and scuffs his boot at the base of a loose stone. He seems to be debating saying something, indeed the Childermass of now recollects the fact. "I feel I should tell you," he says, still eyeing the earth carefully, "that Henry Lascelles and Christopher Drawlight are dead."

Segundus does not speak for a long time. "Was it you?" he finally asks.

"No. To my great regret," Childermass adds with a dark smile. "Mr Lascelles and I had... words." He touches that not-quite-right scar. "But my business was too pressing. He had already done for Drawlight by then. As for himself, I do not know how it came about. But the cards say it is so."

"And you—" Segundus clears his throat. "You trust the cards."

"He is dead," Childermass says. "I would not lie to you."

He feels Segundus' gaze, curious, hesitant, a little wary. At last, "I did not think you would," Segundus says. "You have been cruel, but not, I think, dishonest."

Childermass says, "It was never my intent to be cruel."

Already there is something between them, a charge of energy. Childermass has always felt it. He is good at the cards; he is good at seeing possibilities. What are the possibilities here? A strength of will, an agile mind, a hand for magic, a lively curiosity; a narrow body he would not mind paring of its clothing; and— a great deal of damage he has done, he thinks. A great deal of trouble he has caused for this man.

"I know," Segundus says. "I suppose you are out of practice. At being other kinds of things."

Childermass does not know how to answer this astonishing statement. He stares at Segundus, slightly open-mouthed.

"If you would like to practice," Segundus adds, rather daringly, "I am sure we could come to an equitable arrangement."

"Could we," Childermass says. He glances out at the moors, then back, as though he is searching for someone to share the joke with.

"There is a great deal of magical work to be done now, I find." Segundus ducks his head slightly. Childermass strongly suspects he is blushing. "If your travels should chance to take you through Starecross."

Childermass looks at him with a slow, slow creak of a smile. "Well. We shall wait and see, Mr Segundus, shall we not?"

It will be eight weeks before he returns to Starecross, and he will think of Segundus a great deal before then. He will think about the damage he has done. He will think about this strange new world. He will think about that narrow body, pared of its clothing. He will think about that faint blush and unexpected boldness. He will think about the possibilities.

The Childermass of now watches with a swell of fond warmth that would appall the Childermass of then. It has been, what, two years since that day in the garden? A little more? Not so long. And yet so much has been built since then.

When he leaves that door and reenters the hallway, it occurs to him that perhaps all of these doors are his doors, in some way. They are memories that have to do with him; or else why would he have found them, out of all others? So perhaps he has, after all, a kind of right to see; or not a right, but— and the memory was so pleasant, not one in which he felt an intruder. Why should he not wish to revisit such things?

So he opens the the next door, but the memory there is much different. Once again, he is at Starecross Hall, but he sees no version of his earlier self. Instead, he sees the enchantments Segundus has described before: Sir Walter Pole blinded, Lady Pole with a rose at her mouth, and Segundus with no mouth where his mouth should be. He seems perhaps the most affected; there is a look of such intense horror on his face that Childermass finds it almost impossible to look at. It is a look of the very greatest panic, and yet he cannot even scream.

Childermass cannot bear to watch, even less when he realizes that he was not present at this scene, and that in all likelihood the reason it is here among the doors is— "You thought I would come back," he says quietly, to a memory that cannot hear him. "You thought I would come back, and know how to lift the enchantment."

He turns on his heel, feeling slightly sick, and leaves.

But the next room is far worse. in the next room, Segundus is kneeling on the floor beside a bed, and Lascelles, smirking, pushes his head down, hand twisting cruelly in his fine dark hair, rolling his hips deliberately up till Segundus makes a soft choking sound. Lascelles whispers, "You want to be good for me, don't you?" He wants an answer. Segundus manages a flinch of a nod.

Childermass backs away— he has no right, he knows now, to see this— but in the room after that, Drawlight has a possessive hand clasped heavy at the nape of Segundus' neck. Segundus' head bobs in his lap. Drawlight is murmuring, "Do you like it, I know you like it, you're so good like this, you look so pretty," as Lascelles digs fingers into Segundus' hips, sinking forwards into him, and Segundus makes a sharp noise, all the muscles of his back tensing, and—

Childermass slams the door closed, shaking with a physical rage that has actually taken away his breath. He would like to throttle Lascelles: break the small bones of his neck, listen to him wheeze, unable to speak. He would like to sink a knife into the man's belly and watch him bleed out. He has never given his violent instincts such free reign. But none of it is helpful in this dreamscape; none of it can cause any lasting suffering; and none of it will do the slightest good for Segundus.

When he can stop his hands from forming fists of their own accord, he opens the next door— he must know; he must know: is there anything worse?— and at first thinks he has found a safer scene. It is Norrell's house, he thinks, the house in Hanover Square. He is standing in the library. But when he looks, he sees that Lascelles has Segundus pressed against one of the far bookshelves. He is speaking softly into his ear, but Childermass can hear him quite clearly: "... did not know? How adorable. That's all over now, of course; you should have seen his face when I told him exactly what we did... he was very intrigued to hear all the details, especially when I told him how you panted for it— how sweet you looked on your knees—"

Segundus flinches away, not looking at him, breathing fast. But Lascelles has trapped him in the cage of his arms, and will not relent.

"Why so eager to run away?" Lascelles murmurs. "You weren't before. Quite the opposite, in fact." He leans forwards and takes Segundus' lips in a long, punishing kiss.

Childermass can see Segundus try to pull away, struggling against Lascelles' grip. When he finally breaks free, his face is so full of rage and shame and hurt that Childermass thinks, automatically, No, don't let him see it. Don't ever let them see it. But Segundus has no such hard-won knowledge. His lower lip is trembling. "Don't touch me," he says.

Lascelles smiles, leaning against the bookcase. "Oh, my dear, there isn't anywhere I  _haven't_  touched you."

"You— you—"

"Now, let's not go throwing names. Don't worry; I'm still willing to give you a tumble if you want one, even if you are rather—" Lascelles pauses, and looks him up and down slowly. "Well-used? Is that the word I mean?"

A shrill, trembling voice breaks through the heavy languor of the dream-room. "You shouldn't be here!"

Startled, Childermass turns and finds Segundus standing white-faced behind him. "I—" he begins.

"Why are you here?" Segundus demands furiously. "I do not wish you to see this! Go away!  _Go away!_ "

Childermass feels as though he has been physically struck. The room wavers queasily around him, curling in strips like singeing paper, colour melting off it and away, with a sour, bitter, burning-hair smell, and he has to close his eyes so as not to be sick.

* * *

When he raises his head, he is back in his study, at the little writing table. Nothing has changed, except that he has dropped his pen, and the ink has splattered, and he can still smell the last bits of that unpleasant odour, like the aftertaste of something slightly poisonous.

He sighs, and drops his head in his hands, just for a moment. That is all he allows himself. Then he stands, and does not even bother to fetch his coat before going downstairs. He has never shied from confrontation, and when it comes to this confrontation: better to have it out he thinks, better to have it out of the way.

Segundus, he knows, is not the same, and Childermass is not altogether surprised to find his office empty, with the appearance of having been recently left. He does not have a great desire to go chasing the man hither and thither— Starecross is a large and labyrinthine house, and in any distance around it, one could walk for miles across the moors, if one's goal was avoidance, if one's goal were to avoid someone in particular. Instead, he returns to his study and pours water in a basin. He quarters the water with lines of light, and tries to summon a vision. In the water, he sees Segundus' face briefly, before Segundus flinches, and shuts his eyes, and makes a short sharp gesture with one hand, and the water in the bowl goes black.

Frustrated, Childermass dashes his hand across it, scattering droplets across his papers. "I did not mean to do it!" he protests aloud.

He knows where Segundus has gone, he thinks— he had recognized the look of the little mill pond that lies not very far from Starecross. He debates for a moment leaving Segundus to brood, but he cannot bring himself to do this. He does not like to think of Segundus suffering. So at last he takes his coat and strides out towards the pond.

As he expected, Segundus is there. He is leaning against the willow tree, tossing stones into the pond in sharp angry gestures. He does not look up though he must hear Childermass approaching.

"I did not mean to do it," Childermass says again.

Segundus' mouth tightens. He does not turn. "I am aware," he says to the mill pond. "The blame lies with me. I was attempting to modify a spell which Mr Strange once used. I thought it might be of general use for the easing of bad dreams. Forgive me. I did not realize that you would be affected." He tosses another stone into the water. It lands with a rather violent  _plink._

Ripples spread outwards where the stone has struck. Childermass watches. He says, "I am very sorry to have gone where I was not wanted."

Segundus shakes his head sharply. He has no expression. "Do not be. It is no very great matter. As I said, the fault was mine."

Childermass admits, "I should not have opened the doors."

"No," Segundus says. His face has not changed. "You should not have."

"It will come as no great surprise to you that inquisitiveness is my cardinal sin." He hesitates, then adds, "It does not seem as though it was no very great matter. If asked, I might have hazarded that it was a very great matter indeed."

Segundus hurls another rock into the lake. "You do not—" he starts in very small firm voice. He shakes his head.

"You might as well speak," Childermass tells him. "You know very well you will not be contented till you do. You are not the sort of man to hold his tongue, nor am I one to require such efforts."

Segundus throws him an unhappy glance, but says nothing.

Childermass sighs. "Well, you are vexed with me."

"No!" Segundus says, before admitting: "Yes. It is just that— you do not know what it is to be treated as though you had no will of your own, as though— as though you were a child's plaything. As though what you wanted or did not want was of such little importance— as though the very idea was something they laughed at." His voice rises until it is quite loud and noticeably shaking.

"You think I do not?" Childermass asks evenly. "I was eighteen years in service. All my life, I have bowed to my 'betters.' Bowed and scraped. Perhaps not in the same way; but I can assure you that i know very well what you speak of."

Segundus shakes his head. "I should not have said— of course you do. I am sorry; I am— I am saying all the wrong things." He looks down at his hands, which are still full of pebbles.

"You have every right," Childermass says, "to be out of temper. And, if you like, to be cross with me. Only—" he makes a slightly frustrated gesture. "Allow me some way to mend matters."

Segundus looks at him unreadably. He says, "But they are not yours to mend."

* * *

Later that evening however, when they are absently stretched out upon the bed, working side by side in the yellow glow of early lamps, Segundus— who had purportedly been reading a magical periodical, though Childermass for some twenty minutes had not been deceived by this— says suddenly, "Only it sometimes seems that when you have been made someone's plaything, you may never quite escape it. You may never— I do not quite know what I mean."

Childermass, setting aside his monograph on geographies of the Other Lands, which he had also been pretending to read for the duration of the past twenty minutes, says mildly, "I do not find it so."

"Yes, but you have always been—" Segundus gestures to him. He seems to search for the correct words. "No one commands you," he says. "Even when you were a servant, you were always beyond command."

Childermass raises a sardonic eyebrow at him.

"I have said the wrong thing again," Segundus says, sounding defeated. "I am sorry for it."

Childermass considers, for a moment, the present situation. He removes the unread periodical from Segundus' hand, and sets it on the night-table. He says plainly, "You feel I have made you helpless. I have seen what you did not wish me to see, though quite by accident; therefore you fear that I will not abide by your wishes. I have broken a trust."

"No," Segundus protests. "—That is, I do not feel that— I know that I—"

"But you have always been perfectly able to command me. You may command me whenever you please. Well," he says, considering, "let us say, in certain arenas. I would advise you not to test the scope too broadly. But if you feel unsure of your power—" he draws out the word in what he is aware is a very provocative fashion— "I invite you to exercise it, as, indeed, you are always free to do."

Segundus regards him a little uncertainly. "You are saying," he says slowly, "you do not mind being my... plaything? You would not object to such a— a reversal, you would not find it degrading?"

"I am very content to be your plaything," Childermass says, amused. "I can assure you that it in no way degrades me. And it is not a reversal."

Segundus still looks uncertain. But Childermass suspects he has won this battle. He sees how Segundus' eyes rake over his body, half apprehension and half desire. He wants, but will not admit he wants. When the dam of that subdued wanting breaks— well, Childermass thinks,  _that_  will be quite something to see, and he intends to be there to enjoy it.

He determines that some action is needed, and lies back on the bed, pulling Segundus over him, so that Segundus is kneeling slightly, arms braced over Childermass' shoulders. Their faces are inches apart. Segundus' cheeks have reddened slightly. Nervously, he licks his lips. His mouth makes a small wet sound that Childermass wants more of.

"What are you thinking of?" Childermass asks him. He keeps his voice low and deliberately lazy. "Would you like to hold me down? You may do it if you wish. Or—" He raises a hand to that mouth and trails a thumb over it, pushing in a little to barely touch the wet underside of Segundus' lip. "Do you want to put your mouth wherever it pleases you? You may do that, too. Or you may have my mouth. Anywhere you would like it."

Segundus is breathing very fast. He shuts his eyes. "You should not say such things," he whispers.

"Why not? If I mean them." He rolls his hips slowly up, so Segundus can feel where he is becoming aroused. "It would bring great pleasure to me."

Segundus half-shakes his head in a kind of denial, but he puts a hand on Childermass' face, tracing over the contours of it. He hesitates, then, in a mimicry of Childermass' gesture, touches a finger to Childermass' lips. Childermass parts his lips slightly and uses his tongue to wet that finger and draw it in, circling it, applying gentle suction. He lets his teeth scrape the flesh of it, and Segundus' breath turns into a shaky sound, not quite a word. He does not move. After a moment, he pushes another finger in.

Childermass doesn't quite smile. He performs the same careful motion, long drags of his tongue against those thin fingers, marking nonsense symbols against their tips.

After a moment, Segundus withdraws his fingers and trails them down Childermass' jawline, down the line of his neck, leaving a cool wet streak. He seems to be holding his breath. His eyes flicker upwards—  _is this allowed?_ — and Childermass does not say anything, only tips his head back a little, baring the hollow of his throat.

"Oh," Segundus whispers. He rests his fingertips there for a moment, and then he is rapidly unbuttoning Childermass' waistcoat in a rush of motion. He pushes it open and slides his hands up under Childermass' shirt— with no particular interpretable destination, just pushing, roving all across the naked skin. When he catches at a nipple, Childermass twitches in pleasure. Segundus, with a fascinated expression, does it again, and Childermass bucks his hips up. He wants his shirt off by now, wants to be dragging Segundus down against him, but this is part of the game, letting Segundus set the pace. So if— oh, but this pace is delicious torture, he thinks, as Segundus flicks his finger just there once more, and he clenches his eyes shut for a moment.

Segundus sits back a little, and unbuttons his own waistcoat, shrugging it off and slinging it carelessly off the bed. He rids himself of his shirt— looking, for a moment, quite self-conscious— and then gestures to Childermass' own shirt, rucked and disarrayed. "Will you... ?" he asks.

Childermass has it off in an instant. He is staring avidly at Segundus' pale bare chest, where he loves to place his mouth and feel Segundus shiver. When he raises his eyes, Segundus is watching him hungrily.

"Will you stay where you are?" Segundus asks. "Can you stay quite still if I—?" He touches the waist of Childermass' breeches.

"Yes," Childermass says with feeling.

Segundus' mouth curves into a small smile. He trails his hand down Childermass' stomach, stroking the line of dark hair that marks it, watching the muscles twitch where Childermass is restraining himself, where his hips want to flex up for  _more,_  more contact.

Then Childermass has to close his eyes as Segundus shifts back and reaches forward to unbutton the falls of his breeches. He sees, he must see how hard Childermass is, his cock pressing against the cloth, but he pays no attention, only undoing the breeches meticulously and drawing them down each of Childermass' legs, a long slide that feels like it will never end. He does not take such care with his own breeches, practically stumbling to tear them off him; he too is hard, and when he sees that Childermass has opened his eyes to watch him, he wraps his hand around his cock with a little gasp. He bites his lip, obviously restraining himself. He says, "I cannot be expected to proceed if you look at me so."

"But I like looking at you," Childermass says, and smiles a very crooked smile. "If you do not care for it, come here and stop me."

Segundus' mouth drops open just a little, rather as though he has been struck on the head by lust, and Childermass can see his cock twitch in his hand. He releases himself and clambers up on the bed so that he is level with Childermass' hips, and he has just bent his head when he hesitates slightly and asks once more, "You will stay quite still? You will not... ?"

"No," Childermass says, and does not permit himself those darker thoughts:  _you should not have to ask for this._

Then— Christ, the first careful press of that tongue, so hot and so wet against his cock, so smooth as it travels a wavering line from the very base to the dampening tip, and then those lips parting to slip the head between them— he looks down and sees Segundus' eyelashes lowered in a look of concentration, a dark lock of hair falling in his face, his mouth stretched around— and he has to shut his eyes fast, gasping in a huge breath.

Segundus stops, and pulls away, and Childermass' whole body reacts, thrusting up, trying to follow him.

"No," Segundus says, breathless. "If you like looking at me so much, as you say you do, then you may demonstrate it by looking at me."

Childermass thumps his head against the pillow. "I will not last."

"That is not my concern," Segundus says, and he would almost sound prim if his eyes were not glinting with laughter, and if his lips were not still wet from—

And then he sinks back down, taking in two inches or so and working his tongue thoroughly along them, then slightly lower, a slow glide down and back, the barest hint of pressure, unbearably good, so that Childermass longs to thrust up into that heat. He drives his fingertips into the mattress, hanging onto his self-restraint, though he cannot not imagine for a moment touching that stretched mouth, feeling where his cock slides in and out of it—stroking the curve of a lip, half in raw want and half in wonder.

But he stays still, though by the time a few minutes have passed his legs are trembling and he cannot stop himself making noises, near-constant noises that are close to pleas. "Ah," he says as Segundus bobs his head, "ah, ah—  _ah,_  I— I can't—"

He can't stop his hips driving up a little, he means, because it is so good, and the depth is incredible, and he starts to gasp out, "Forgive me, forgive me," even as he arches his back at the intensity of feeling—

But Segundus has matter-of-factly placed hands on his hips. He glances up very quickly and a little shyly, and again the question his eyes ask is clear:  _Is this all right?_  To which the answer is: it is a great relief, and Childermass is quick to nod his head.

Without the use of his hands, Segundus works more sloppily, which is not a complaint— Childermass feels a hot thrill he had not expected, watching him work his mouth as best he can over his cock, that intense little frown of focus on his face, the way his lips grow smeared and increasingly red. Childermass can feel his balls tightening close to his body, and he doesn't want to give in, not yet, so he says tightly, "I'm—  _mm_ ," as he loses what comes next in a moan.

Segundus again pulls off of him, and Childermass cannot help making a ragged sound of loss. Segundus looks amused by it. He crawls up Childermass' body— his face is flushed, his mouth so wet, and and Childermass has to reach out and touch him, dragging his thumb through that wetness, feeling light-headed with arousal.

Segundus lets him do this, eyes very big, and then kisses him savagely. Childermass can feel his cock thrusting between their bodies, and the thought that Segundus enjoys this, that he has enjoyed having his mouth on Childermass' cock, is even more arousing. Childermass groans into the kiss. He wants to grab Segundus' hair, force their mouths together, somehow get closer, closer, and he has to squeeze his hands into fists.

"Have you," Segundus says into his mouth, "that is, are you— have you—" He cannot seem to stop kissing. "That is, I do not yet know all of your experience?"

"I have been a sailor, a thief, and a servant, " Childermass says. "You may take it there is little I have not done nor had done to me." He is proud of himself for managing to utter such an articulate statement, in the circumstances. "Tell me what you wish. Would you have me?"

Segundus blushes even more deeply. "No, I— I— I would—  _give_  myself to you, if it is— but in— if we may, in something like this position, so that—"

 _So that you will not be face-down,_  Childermass thinks.  _So that I may not hold you down_. The spike of rage gives way to and feeds an overwhelming surge of desire, and he wraps his arms around Segundus' back, holding him and covering his mouth in kisses.

"We may," he breathes. "I will be very careful; you must lead me; you must show me what you desire, how I can please—"

There is oil of several varieties by the writing-table, which is one of the more unexpected conveniences of being a magician and having a magician's supplies; having acquired it, Childermass settles back onto the bed and draws Segundus into his lap. He wets his fingers, and then— seeing Segundus' look of rather grim determination— says, "I shall not touch you if it is not more pleasurable than  _that._ "

Segundus frowns, and Childermass captures the frown in a kiss, sucking slowly at his lower lip. "Here," Childermass breathes, "if I may—" and reaches back, gently stroking, probing lightly, but not pushing in.

Segundus makes a startled but not unhappy sound. "Oh," he says, "I— oh," and moves his hips, thrusting so that he is lightly riding Childermass' finger. He closes his eyes and bites his lip.

After a moment, Childermass eases in a fraction, then slightly deeper, still moving slightly so that his finger strokes against that hot, tender inner flesh. His mouth has gone quite dry, watching Segundus take his finger, his head tipped slightly back, his nipples taut and his cock still firmly erect. He is more tentative with the second, very gently pushing into the stretch, and when Segundus frowns, he fears he has been too hasty, but then he shifts— his knuckle presses gently— and Segundus bucks his hips forward, his breath coming startled and fast.

"Ohplease," Segundus breathes, "that, please, that— can you—"

So Childermass thrusts his fingers in again, and then again, and Segundus makes high startled sounds, and in the meanwhile he seems to relax, so that a third finger brings chiefly an increase of pleasure.

By this time, Childermass is unashamedly thrusting up, his cock brushing against Segundus' buttocks, and he is determinedly not considering the nature of the act he is to perform, so as not to finish there and then. When he withdraws his fingers and spills oil onto his cock, this is no longer possible, and a shock of arousal runs through him. His skin hums as though with a magical charge. When he carefully lifts Segundus, and his cock touches the place where he is open, Childermass briefly shuts his eyes, but Segundus touches his face softly and says, "No, look. I would have you look."

There is none of the humour of the earlier demand, and Childermass thinks, in a flash, that he understands why. He lifts his head and meets Segundus' eyes. He says, "I will."

He begins, ever slightly, to press in.

It is his intent to allow Segundus to control the penetration, and to this end, he barely lifts his hips, but instead allows Segundus to sink slowly onto him, hands braced against his chest. Childermass— Childermass hears himself make a sound as though something has been cut out of him, as though a sound has been ripped from between his ribs, and he strokes frantic, dazed hands over Segundus' body to stop himself clinging onto him. He does not trust himself to speak, and he does not trust himself to look and see where Segundus is taking him inch by inch; so he stares into Segundus' face and sees it laid vulnerable and uncertain, a strange naked show of tenderness, overwhelming sensation, and fear. He cannot think what his own face communicates at that moment— or as Segundus lifts himself slightly, then pushes himself back down, taking more of Childermass into him.

For a time, he rocks gently, an inch up and back, a brief sweet slide, over and over, that leaves Childermass clenching his hands in the bedsheets, hungry to go deeper and harder.

"Please," Childermass manages. "Please. I need—"

Segundus touches his face. "You could take what you want," he says.

"No—" Childermass shakes his head a little wildly. "I will not. I will not."

"Oh," Segundus says softly, as though he had not quite believed it.

He lifts himself fractionally higher, then sinks deeper; once more; then again, each time seeming to wonder at the expression on Childermass' face. Then in one long movement he shifts till Childermass' cock is barely in his body, and pushes back, taking all of it in.

"Christ on a Cross and all His Martyrs," Childermass says, not very coherently, and Segundus, looking rather triumphant at this effect, repeats the motion. His own cock, which had softened, is now rising— presumably, Childermass thinks somewhat hazily, due to the enjoyment Segundus is getting out of torturing him, and only secondarily from any other form of pleasure. Childermass brings a hand up to stroke it, somewhat awkwardly, and Segundus gazes wide-eyed at him, mouth dropping open slightly. In very little time he is quite hard and moaning slightly, grinding himself down into Childermass' hips. He brings his own hand down to stroke more effectively, and Childermass says hoarsely, "Yes. Yes... touch yourself, I wish to see you do so; I want to watch you—" and he fumbles his own hands to Segundus' buttocks to urge him higher and faster.

He fixes his eyes on Segundus, gripping his own cock, his eyes glassy with lust; the way his fine hair, now damp with sweat, clings to his face; the way he shapes his mouth into little sounds he doesn't quite manage, sounds overwhelmed by pleasure; then, oh, too much, oh, the visible place where Childermass' cock is pushing into him— and as Segundus touches himself, Childermass can feel his pleasure from the inside, and he thinks that is what will end him, that little tension as Segundus works his way towards climax. He is determined that Segundus should reach it before him, and he rakes his hands up Segundus' back, seeing him arch, and presses up a little into him, then a little more firmly, and Segundus whispers fiercely, "Yes, yes!" so Childermass lets himself roll his hips, fucking upwards as Segundus slams down against him. It is so good, so deep, and it wrings a small cry out of Segundus every time, until those cries blur into one perpetual thing, and then he is convulsing, and Childermass can feel it around him as Segundus spends wet and hot onto his chest.

Segundus droops over Childermass, kissing him frantically and messily, mumbling things Childermass cannot understand, and Childermass says something very nonsensical that he had not intended, such as, "Beautiful, you are beautiful, beautiful," while fucking frantically up into him with fast hard strokes. As he finishes, he pulls Segundus down upon him and wraps shaking arms around his waist. And that is the last thing he clearly thinks for a little while.

* * *

For a long time, he lies beside Segundus, absently stroking the skin of his back, gazing at his sleepy face in the lamplight. He is, he reflects with shaming awareness, horribly encumbered by sentiment. After a while, he recalls that they are both very dirty, and he rises to fetch a basin and cloth.

Segundus flails at his arm and murmurs, "No, no," drowsily protesting the loss of his touch.

"In this, you may not command me," Childermass tells him gravely.

He returns in a moment. He starts to lift the cloth to Segundus, so that Segundus will not have to stir himself from approaching sleep, but after an indecisive, complicated moment of thinking, he doesn't. He touches his shoulder.

Segundus hums a vague enquiry into the pillow.

"May I?" Childermass asks, sitting beside him, showing him the water and the cloth.

Segundus looks at them for a very long moment, more awake now. His eyes flicker to Childermass. "—Yes," he eventually says.

Childermass nods. He takes the cloth and warm water, and in the blue-gold light of the darkening evening he washes both of their bodies clean.


End file.
